The Silver Prophet
by SpartAl412
Summary: A great doom comes to the land of Bretonnia and to the Old World, a great tide of blood that would threaten to consume all in its path. But it is a doom that could yet be averted. A mage from the White Tower must now travel to the lands of Men, seeking out the root of this doom and the only being who can aid him in stopping it.


_The sky burned with fire as dark, winged fiends flew above, encircling him like a flock of hungry vultures. Dead black soil surrounded his feet, the eyeless gazes of countless skulls were all directed towards him, their mouths left wide open in silent screams. He then felt the ground beginning to rumble, the sea of skulls around him began to rattle a macabre chorus._

' _Join us' the skulls seemed to say as their empty eye sockets gazed upon him. 'Join us in our damnation, join us in death.'_

 _Ignoring the beckoning of the dead, his attention was focused on the horizon where something was approaching. He could not quite make out what it was but he could that it was dark, massive stretching as wide as the eye could see. After a moment, his eyes widened in horror for what he saw was a wave, a great crimson tide of blood dotted with countless skulls crashing towards him._

 _There was no point in running he realized for there was nothing which he could use as shelter, nothing he could give him refuge from the blood tide which would crush his body beneath its weight. The rattling laughter of the skulls became more raucous, their beckoning more insistent and he ignored them again. As the tide loomed ever closer, he raised his hand towards the wall of blood and he began to invoke words of power._

 _A golden bubble of light immediately surrounded him, he knew that it would not last for long but it was the best he could do to stave of his doom, even if for a little while longer. As more arcane words escaped his lips, he began to feel a sudden change in his spell-weaving, an influx of power which strengthened the defensive barrier. The ground around him suddenly began to change, the cracked, black earth became dark brown and loamy as green vegetation sprouted from beneath._

 _Life surrounded him, filling his very being with a comforting sense of warmth and he began to feel a presence with him. Opening his eyes, he saw a brilliant, white light shining in front of him and from within this light he saw someone beckoning towards him. Having little other choice, he halted his spell casting and he leapt towards the light before the tide of blood crushed him._

 _For a moment he was blinded, his eyes were filled with the arcane light which slowly faded and gave way to cool clouds of mist. A dark, slender figure appeared within the grey clouds and he called out to it, asking for who or what it was._

' _Seek me out; Son of Storms' whispered a soft, feminine voice as gentle hands reached up to caress his face. He gazed down upon the countenance of a woman with long brown tresses, eyes of deep jade and pale, skin. 'Seek me out in the heart of the Red Lion's court; find me, before the blood tide rises…'_

 ** _IC:2514_**

The return to his mortal coil was always a disorienting experience, even for one such as Kellanion Coelrien, on of the Archmages of the White Tower of Hoeth. The smell of burning incense filled his lungs, the ingredients of which were made from exotic Lustrian herbs, like those used by the Slann Mage-Priests in their long periods of meditation. His journey into the _Aethyr_ had been more or less successful for he had finally found progress in his search.

For days now, he had been receiving visions of the usual sort, death, ruin and destruction that would fall upon the world but these latest ones had been quite troubling. The signs he had seen in the heavens could not be denied, that the followers of the Dark Gods were once more on the move and in numbers not seen in centuries. From the north, the Hordes of Chaos launched their raiding fleets which ravaged the coasts of the civilized realms while from the forest of the _Elthin Arvan_ , the warherds of Beastmen marched in their thousands towards the lands of Men and from below the earth, the vermin of the Under-Empire plotted and schemed.

Slowly rising up from a cross legged position, he whispered a quick word of power which extinguished the candles around him and he made his way out of the meditation chamber. The pristine halls of the White Tower were filled with many elves ranging from apprentice mages, scholars, astronomers, alchemists, poets and swordsmasters on patrol. Giving only brief nods of acknowledgment to those he passed by, his thoughts were focused on the words of the woman from his vision.

'The Red Lion's Court' he whispered to himself while jogging his memory for such a place which the mysterious woman had said.

For more than a century now, Kellanion had been the head of a small party but well funded group whose duties were for the most part, to monitor and protect the Waystones of _Elthin Arvan_ from any who would tamper with them. In his time, the Archmage had traveled to many places from the frozen steppes of Kislev to the searing deserts of Nehekhara. He had been a guest to the many courts of Men both living and dead and on a number of occasions he had even traveled to those belonging to the sylvan kin.

After a short moment, he remembered one particular land which matched the vague words, a coastal province in the human nation of Bretonnia called Lyonesse which used a red lion as its primary insignia. Knowing where he must go now, the Archmage quickly headed towards his quarters to prepare for the long the journey ahead…

* * *

 _Somewhere upon the Sea of Claws…_

The sounds of blades clashing, flesh tearing, bones breaking and the screams of the dying was music to the ears of SkálmöldRedblade as she roared praises to the Eternal Father, Kharneth.

'BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!' she roared with open blood-lust as she thrust her sword into the gut of a weak southling man who dared to oppose her.

'SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!' replied her clansmen as they eagerly engaged their foes.

It was a glorious day for the warriors of the Rage-Born clan for after many days upon the high seas, they had found fresh prey. When they had spotted the Galleon which bore the colors of a Marienburg merchant ship, the fleet of Norse Wolfships immediately set sail with the full intent of the murder. After spending many wasted, bloodless days at sea, it was a relief to the Norscans to finally have something to kill on their journey.

Slamming a brazen shield upon the face of a southling marine, Skálmöld felt the satisfying crunch of bone before slashing out the throat of the man. Clad head to toe in ensorcelled heavy armor of crimson and brass, her helmet bore twin curling horns and was shaped to resemble the roaring visage of a Bloodletter. A fresh coating of gore smeared the hell-forged plates which had long ago become one with her flesh and despite its weight, Skálmöld moved quite easily within it as she expertly parried, blocked or dodged attacks before delivering deadly counters with from her long sword which contained the bound essence of a daemon.

The decks were awash with gore and spilled entrails as more of the weak southlings died before their weapons and the sense of fear among the defending marines was quite palpable. Like sharks scenting blood, the norscans were further whipped up into a mad frenzy; the pain of any wound they had suffered became lost in their rage as they desired nothing more than to kill. Everything became lost in a glorious red haze as they killed and killed until every southling aboard the ship was either dead or maimed.

When it seemed that the fighting was over, Skálmöld raised her bloody sword high, the tip pointed towards the heavens as she gave one last cry of exaltation in the name of the Kharneth. The Marauders around her cheered both the names of the Blood God and of Skálmöld herself for there was no denying the favor which she bore. Heads were immediately severed from the bodies and placed in a growing mound, each one an offering to the Skull Throne.

'Skálmöld! Skálmöld! Skálmöld!' chanted the warriors of the Rage-Born clan. It was rare thing among the clans of Norsca for a Shield Maiden such as herself to rise so high, especially to the rank of a Hersir and rarer still to be both worthy and awarded the command of a warband that which she now led.

'You have all done well my warriors!' announced Skálmöld which silenced her clanmates. 'Take what you can and bring it aboard our ships, burn the rest!'

The marauders eagerly then dispersed to search for anything of value upon the ship. If there were any survivors aboard, then their skulls would be added to the pile if they were worthy but if not then they would taken as slaves. Trusting that her warriors would know what to do, she took a moment to bask in the glorious smells of sweat, blood, loosened bowels and the sea for to her, it was the smell of victory.

Yet, this was but a minor victory, a pleasant diversion from the true glory which awaited them across the sea. In recent months, the _vitki_ of their tribe had received in their sleep, dreams, visions to be more precise, of a great servant of the Blood God, calling to them from within the southling realm known as Bretonnia. What this servant of the Eternal Father wanted was unknown but if one of their patron deity' own children had needed them then they would answer for it was the will of Kharneth.

With a silent promise to both the Blood God and her ancestors, Skálmöld vowed to prove her worth and bring honor to her clan and to herself.

* * *

The personal quarters of Kellanion were a simple and elegant affair for as an Archmage, he was allowed such luxuries. Consisting of a spacious, round chamber with some basic furnishings, the high elf really only needed it for sleep or for conversations spoken in private for on most days, he was busy using the other facilities within the White Tower. Now standing in front of an opened armoire, the Archmage began putting on an enchanted set of robes which he used both in traveling and in battle.

Woven from the imported silks from distant Cathay and dyed in the blue and white of Saphery, several multi-colored power stones, each possessing the essence of a solidified Wind adorned the imbued garments. Exquisitely decorated with golden embroidery, it also displayed along the edges of the robes several intricate patterns of elven runes. The only pieces armor which he wore were a pair of gilded light ithilmar bracers studded with more power stones and an enchanted crown of sea gold, all items meant to assist him in spell-casting.

After being fully dressed, he then went towards a weapon rack which carried a pair of arcane implements that he always brought with him. The first was of course was his staff, a long piece of smooth white wood carved from the bark of a Starwood, it was reinforced with gilded ithilmar which made it effective both for defending against attacks and bashing an opponent, it was topped with a bright, multi-colored gem placed in the center of a golden other was a jeweled sword hilt forged from bright bronze; the guard and pommel were inlaid with True Rubies, the solidified essence of _Aqshy_ , the Bright Wind.

When he finished properly securing his enchanted armaments, the Archmage then took from a strong box, some pieces of jewelry which also contained magic within them. As he nearly completed his preparations, he felt a familiar presence nearby, one that did not need to be sensed through the _Aethyr_ , but rather it was something he would always feel deep within his heart. Looking over his shoulder, he heard the soft knocking on the doorway leading into his quarters and he called for his visitor to come inside.

The wooden door gently opened and from it came an armored lady swordmaster bearing a finely wrought greatsword upon her back, another sword by her left hip and a tall elvish shield on her back. Like the Archmage, she possessed sky blue eyes with, long cloud white hair and pale skin. If one were to look upon their faces, it would have been easy to mistake one for the other.

'You are departing as well?' questioned the lady swordmaster with a raised eyebrow.

'To a different land' replied Kellanion. 'Remember to find the Sun-bearer.'

'I shall and may Lileath guide you' whispered the swordmaster who stepped forward with eyes locked upon his own. Her hands reached up to touch his cheeks and she leaned forward to place a kiss upon his forehead and the Archmage repeated the intimate gesture. Briefly did Kellanion give a reassuring smile to Swordmaster and after a companionable moment of silence, they parted.

Nothing more was needed to be said between them for they knew their duties all too well. The world would always be in peril from the servants of ruin and it would always be the duty of the _Asur_ to safeguard the world. It was duty they had both known and been brought up to follow since their shared birth.

The lady swordmaster then vacated the Archmage's quarters; the first step of her journey would be to the stables to procure a winged mount to take her to the port city of Lothern. For Kellanion on the other hand, he had his own means to acquire safe passage and he looked back to the opened Armoire. Gently closing the arms of the cabinet section and opening one of its lower drawers, he saw that there was polished wooden flute which rested upon a cloth of green velvet.

Bound within the flute was the essence of _Ghur_ , the Amber Wind of which was associated with the beasts of the wild. Picking up the magic instrument and placing it by his belt, the Archmage soon went towards the door leading out of his quarters. A small part of him was thrilled at the idea of using the enchanted flute for he so did enjoy flying; it was something he had picked up from his father, a Loremaster who had spent years honing his skill in both spell and sword.

His longing to feel the wind upon his face and freedom of flight quickened his pace as the Archmage took his own, first step towards his journey.

* * *

Dumping a clutch of bloodied, severed heads upon the gore-stained deck, Skálmöld raised her sword in salute towards a small pyramid of skulls before adding her offering. It was a pitiful offering but the best the Doom-Hollows could provide to the Eternal Father before looting the lower decks of the ship. The Norscans had found much to their delight, several stores of victuals ranging from sacks of grain to dried fish and meat along with kegs of Imperial beer.

Although treasure of gold and jewels would have been more appreciated by the Marauders, the extra supplies would go a long way in making sure that the warriors aboard the fleet and even the slaves would not go hungry (not that it would stop some individuals who quite enjoyed to cannibalism). The Skalds began to recite the great sagas of their ancestors as the rest of them worked to transfer the goods from the Galleon towards their ships, tales of victory and fabulous treasures plundered from across the world were sung by all who knew the words. Skálmöld herself had joined the rest of her clansmen in the chore for despite her hard-earned position as a _Hersir_ , she still very much considered herself as one of the Marauders.

It had been a great honor for the former Shield Maiden to be made a leader of a warband by their clan's lord, Jarl Ragnar Ragestorm who was at the moment, back in Norsca, recovering from wounds received during a recent skirmish with the hedonistic followers of the Serpent, Shornaal. Skalmold's father had been a great warrior, a thane sworn to the Jarl and had later left to go further north, into the realms of the Gods as an Aspiring Champion and he had seen it fit to teach his only child the way of the warrior before he set off. Over the years, the Shield Maiden had proven herself to be a capable leader, warrior and sailor who was as skilled as any of the men-folk.

In the history of their clan, there had only been very few women who had gained any sort of prominence among its warriors, less so who attained a position of leadership. Within Skálmöld's heart, she aspired to be like the Gorequeen, Valkia the Bloody, the Bride of the Eternal Father for like many followers of the True Gods, she truly aspired to reach the greatest heights of glory and eventually, daemonhood. When the Norscans eventually finished plundering the galleon of everything of value, they set it ablaze with pitch and torches.

Boisterous laughter filled the deck as they watched the southling ship burn. The smell of burning wood mixed with the charring flesh of its now dead crew amused the Marauders as they continued their journey towards the south. Before they had left their homeland, the Bloodfathers of their tribe, the warrior-priesthood dedicated to Kharneth had claimed to have seen signs sent from the Eternal Father within the spilled entrails of sacrificial slaves.

The warrior-priests had claimed that great glory in the eyes of Kharneth awaited to be gained if they sailed south, to the lands of the Horse Lords known to the southlings as Bretonnia. They had spoken of a witch who had earned the ire of the of the Blood God, one whose trickery and deceits had brought a dishonorable ruin to a number of the Eternal Father's faithful and cheating him of souls promised. And so the Norscan warband sailed, south across the sea to exact retribution upon the one who had earned the wrath of Kharneth.

A grand slaughter awaited them upon those distant shores where warbands of mounted warriors ruled and they were eager to meet such with bloodied weapons in hand.

* * *

The wind gently swept across the emerald forest surrounding White Tower of Hoeth, causing the sea of green to lightly dance and sway. The clash of blades could be heard as apprentice swordmasters trained and sparred, their particular fighting styles were as deadly as they were graceful. Novice mages as well performed their own training, most tended to the gardens around the tower, wielding the Wind of _Ghyran_ to grow and plants in a manner similar to that practiced by mages in Averlorn or the _Asrai_ Athel Loren.

Kellanion placed the magic flute to his lips and he began to play a song that would have been difficult to hear for those who were not attuned to the _Aethyr_ in the way the _Asur_ were. Its soft melody was infused with the Winds and it drew the attentions of many birds that flocked around him, the many avian creatures began to fly above him in a swirling pattern as they filled the air with countless chirps, screeches, caws, squawks and hoots. They came in many sizes and colors as flew around the Archmage, forming a swirling vortex of feathered bodies as they lent their voices to the spell-song.

Continuing to play for many long minutes while pouring more magical energy into the instrument, his efforts were eventually rewarded by a great cry that echoed across the skies and frightening away the flock of birds that had gathered around him. Soaring from the mountains of the Annulii came a single glorious form which inspired both awe and reverence to the Archmage who continued his arcane song. Gently looking up he saw a Great Eagle with a coat of dark brown feathers and gold begin its descent, it let loose another loud cry which echoed across the horizon.

With a natural grace one would expect from such a noble bird of prey, the Great Eagle landed with a deep thump upon the earth, twin orbs of golden with black irises regarded the Archmage with a familiar interest. Superficially, the Great Eagles that inhabited the mountains were physically the same as their significantly smaller, more mundane kin but it was in the eyes of such creatures, aside from their size which truly marked their difference. There was an intellect within those two orbs that studied him, not the cunning of a clever beast like a well-trained Chracian War Lion but one more akin to a truly sentient being for the Great Eagles were more than capable of understanding and even speaking in the tongues of other races.

'It has been a long time since you have summoned me, Son of Storms' spoke the Eagle Prince, Menelval of the Line of Ellasir, his command of _Eltharin_ was perfect with a deep, cultured and baritone voice.

'You honor me with your presence my lord' graciously bowed the Archmage for there were many proprieties to be followed, rules of conduct and etiquette that one must observe when treating with the Great Eagles who like the Dragons that slept beneath the lands of Caledor were among the oldest allies of the _Asur_. 'My divination and studies have kept me busy, my lord' admitted the Archmage 'but I have seen once more, portents of dark days coming, of a great ruin that would befall our peoples if we do not act.'

'Such is the way of mages and seers' nodded the Great Eagle who was more than deeply familiar with the works of Kellanion and those many mages who had hailed from his family. The Eagle Prince then lowered himself to the ground, an invitation to allow the Archmage to climb on and so the High Elf did. 'So where must we fly then?' questioned Menelval 'to the plains of Ellyrion or the isles of Cothique? Perhaps even to the coasts of Tiranoc?'

'To _Elthin_ _Arvan_ , to the Old World' announces the Archmage as he climbed upon the back of the Great Eagle.

'That is quite the distance away' noted the Eagle Prince. 'I have not flown towards the east in many a year, are the Waystones in danger again?'

'They are' replied the Archmage as he settled himself as comfortably as he could between the shoulders of the Great Eagle. 'But I have sent my companions forth to deal with the matter but for us, we must go to the human lands of Bretonnia.'

'The realm of the Horse Lords?' questioned Menelval who then began to speak with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. 'There is little in the way of good hunting there, save for horses with too tough a meat, armored men too full of impetuous recklessness and plebeians too full of disease.'

'The mountains of the _Arluii_ have many of your kin' reminded the Archmage for when the Elves of old had once colonized large portions of the Old World, there had been many Great Eagles who came with them and had made nests in the part of the world known to Men and Dwards as the Grey Mountains. 'I am sure there would be many who would delight in meeting a noble prince such as yourself, especially among the female populace.'

'You raise a good point' light-heartedly jested Menelval. 'I am sure the Grey Ones would appreciate a strengthening of their bloodlines.'

With that, the Great Eagle then began to beat its wings once more. Taking to the air, the Archmage was flew over the surrounding forests, his hands tightly held onto the back feathers of the Eagle Prince. The illusions which guarded the White Tower abated to allow both elf and eagle swift passage away from it. Kellanion felt the cold blast of wind of that sent his robes and long hair flailing, he reveled in the speed and the sight of laid before them.

So high up he now was that he could feel not only the natural gusts flowing over him but also that of the Winds of Magic. He felt them all, the blazing heat of _Aqshy_ , the warmth of _Ghyran_ , the coldness of _Shyish_ , the cleansing purity of _Hysh,_ the obfuscating disorientation of _Ulgu_ and so on. Drawing upon the eight Winds and weaving them into its purest form, _Quaysh_ , he cast a spell upon the Eagle Prince, granting the noble lord both greater vitality and alacrity.

The journey to the Old World and towards Bretonnia would at best take days to complete but the Mage had ensured to bring enough provisions to last them. As they soared across the sky and over the mountains of the _Annulii_ , he thought again of his vision and the woman who called to him. There were mysteries awaiting for him in _Elthin_ _Arvan_ , a purpose to be discovered on the distant shores of Lyonesse.


End file.
